At the foot of the hill where visitors line up for the blue Universal Studios Hollywood shuttle, a couple sits on a silver bench under the gloomy gray sky. They’re a bearded man in his late twenties, wearing khaki shorts with sunglasses resting above his forehead and a girl in a yellow sundress who tells him she spends an hour each morning taming her curly hair before driving two hours one way to get to school. The man shakes his head, chuckling. Girls, he probably thinks, when he gives the most generic male answer “I just brush my teeth, change, and am out the door in ten minutes.” On the shuttle, they sit side by side, and he asks her if she’s ever been to the park. She says yes, and before she can finish saying what her favorite ride is, he launches into a speech about how he loves taking first-timers on the Mummy ride. She sinks back into her seat, silent except for the occasional, noncommittal mmhmm. But it’s too late to run; the shuttle has dragged itself to a halt in the parking lot behind CityWalk.
In the dim, expectant hush of Ollivander’s Wand shop, three aunts hover behind their niece, a girl of about ten with pigtails and flushed cheeks. The room buzzes with anxious anticipation—the lucky person who will get to be chosen by their wand will be announced soon—although there’s really no doubt who will be chosen; there is only one child in the room, with not two, but three! adults who might pay up. When the lady at Ollivander’s solemnly asks for her name, she turns around, seeking her aunts’ approval. They bob their heads frantically in encouragement, one going as far as giving her a small shove forward. “Jessica,” she squeaks. From the towering wall lined with wand boxes, the lady pulls out a brown box. The whole room holds their breath, except for her aunts, who fumble over their iphones to record the moment. Jessica gives the wand an excited wave. Drawers rattle violently above. The lady at the counter gives a disapproving tut. Giggles ripple through the room as Jessica herself laughs nervously. Unflustered, the lady rummages through more boxes of wands. Another wand, another mishap, but the third time’s the charm. The room begins to ring with soft chimes after Jessica ventures a timid wave; the wand has chosen its owner. Then the lights turn back on, the show ends, and the lady thanks us for visiting Ollivander’s and ushers us—except Jessica and her companions—through the door into another giant room full of wands for sale. There is a reddit post that warns about what might befall Jessica next—one parent complained that he had refused to pay 60 dollars for the wand that had “chosen” his son. His son then threw a tantrum, ruining their holiday. Luckily, this did not happen to Jessica, who is seen half an hour later brandishing her new wand, trying to make teacups float in Madam Puddlefoot’s Tea Shop’s display window.
Outside of Honeydukes, a dad and his two kids march past the Hogwarts Express parked across the street without even giving the cheerful conductor in his red uniform a glance. The girl walks quietly ahead, while her younger brother trudges beside his dad, moodily swinging a plastic bag with a picture of Hogwarts and Daniel Radcliffe’s face plastered on with cheap ink. There’s something he wants to buy from Honeydukes, and the dad reprimands him. “Do you know what you have in that bag you’re holding? There’s 75 dollars worth of stuff. Do you know you already have 75 dollars worth of stuff?” The dad quickens his pace, annoyance clouding over his face as the kid struggles to catch up. Soon they disappear into the crowd.
This disaster unfolds as I lean against the wall between two bay windows of Honeydukes, a small haven from the untimely May drizzle. I’m enjoying my 10-dollar apple toffee and Butterbeer™ soft-serve ice cream (which noticeably does not taste like apple toffee or Butterbeer™; it’s just sweet) that I let myself order after spending, coincidentally, 75 dollars on Chocolate Frogs™ and Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavour Beans™. As the family disappears into the crowd, a new wave of Mario Plush Hats and The Big Pink donuts push their way into The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. I carefully wipe away the drops of ice cream that stained my Florean Fortescue pink paper cone, tuck the cone into my bag, and slip out the exit.
The amusement park blasts See You Again on the way between the exit gates and the parking lot; the screams and laughter of everyone inside are still audible. The setup feels like a cheap way to lure customers back into another round of family-friendly fun that costs at the very least a hundred and nine dollars per person. What’s worse, it works. As I walk to the Frankenstein Garage to get an uber, I find myself nostalgic and reminiscing about all the fun I had—frozen Butterbeer™, Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey™ where I got to race after Harry for the golden snitch, signed copies of Lockhart’s books in the display windows of a closed store—and feel guilty about leaving so early. Perhaps I should go back, visit the Owl Post, and get that cute Hedwig plushie? Maybe I should try to like the other themed attractions a little more, maybe even join the virtual line for Toad Cafe? Universal Studios Hollywood is working its magic to convince me that this is the most unforgettable trip in my entire life, and I can make it ten times better if I simply turn around, go back, and throw more money.
But I didn’t actually have that much fun. I got sick on Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey, and the ride glitched midway. At least I wasn’t hanging upside down in a tete-a-tete with Aragog. Frozen Butterbeer on a cold, rainy day began to feel like torture to my hands pretty soon. And perhaps the two most damning moments were these—the bookshop with Lockhart’s books was just a prop, and the Owl Post only sends postcards within the US.
On my uber ride back, I keep thinking about the people I saw. The almost-thirty man on a date with the college-aged girl who probably would never want to see him again. Jessica and her aunts, now sixty dollars lighter but still giddy. The fuming dad who didn’t want to spend another cent, the quiet daughter who knew too well to provoke him, and the brooding son who already had 75 dollars worth of stuff and wanted more. I wonder about where they are. Are they still in the park? Are they also on their way home? Do they regret going with who they did, do they regret going at all?
As for me, I’m grateful. Grateful for the freedom to roam wherever I want for however long I want, to make irresponsible purchases without being judged or yelled at, to have no one to please and no expectations to be pleased, all of which perks of someone still in that strange short window of being old enough to own a credit card, young enough that someone else pays the bills, and free enough from responsibilities and commitments to go to Universal Studios alone. It’s a window that is closing in June; who will I be the next time I go?